


Enigma

by devdevlin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Voldemort goes to azkaban AU, but yeah, don't @ me for tagging it as tom riddle, he'll get young and pretty I promise, here I go with another one, if you wanna be technical, no time travel, obviously, set 10 years after battle of hogwarts, voldemort is a creep, volmione I SUPPOSE
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:29:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25398445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devdevlin/pseuds/devdevlin
Summary: Curiosity killed the cat.Voldemort was arrested AU
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle, Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Hermione Granger/Voldemort
Comments: 138
Kudos: 317





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> hi there.
> 
> this is gonna be another lil short one, i'm thinking, 10 or so chapters??? don't trust me though, i can never be trusted with these things, i'm writing as i go ok?
> 
> as per usual, please keep in mind when reading this that voldemort is a BAD GUY. he is NOT NICE. that means he will do BAD THINGS. please don't read this if you don't like it when BAD GUYS do BAD THINGS.
> 
> also for some background; for the sake of this lil story, this is set 10 years after the deathly hallows, hermione works for the ministry, at the battle of hogwarts, voldemort was arrested and not killed, aaaand harry too is still live and well.
> 
> okay. now that that's out of the way, away we go!

She has never seen him so closely in the flesh.

Lord Voldemort sits rigidly, less than two metres from her, spine straight and legs crossed. He is oddly still for someone sitting in a room so cold.

He isn't looking at her, providing the perfect opportunity to take him in, to accustom herself to his quiet yet demanding presence.

His skeletal figure is covered with a thin, black fabric that's visibly fraying at the edges. There are dark rings underneath his eyes, and his skin is weathered, wrinkled around his eyes and mouth, yet somehow stretched taught over his cheekbones at the same time. Though, Hermione isn't surprised by his slenderness. She knows too well that there is room for improvement on the menu at Azkaban.

Overall, Lord Voldemort is... not what she had been expecting. Like the other inmates, Azkaban seems to have worn away at him, and it is an odd reminder that somewhere underneath all of his past horrific actions, he is still, at his core... human.

It's an unsettling reminder, and as the minutes gradually tick by, Hermione is at a loss as to where to start. Eventually, when she can bear the silence no more, she settles for clearing her throat.

At the sound, Lord Voldemort does not so much as flinch.

"Mr..." she pauses, suddenly uncertain of what to call him. Why hadn't she considered what to call him? "Mr. Riddle?"

His body still doesn't move a muscle, yet his eyes snap to hers. 

His irises are strikingly red and although they are the colour of passion, of heat, there is only a deep coldness to be found within them.

A sudden, out of place sort of _thrill_ runs through her, and yet, her instincts nudge her, urge her to shrink under his gaze. 

Hermione pays them no mind, keeps herself level.

"Let us begin," she says, and her voice is even. It is clear and composed, just as she'd practised in the weeks leading up to this.

Voldemort doesn't say anything in response and simply continues to stare, and so, she goes on. "How are you feeling today?"

Slowly, his skin lifts over his brow bone, and it’s almost amusing, how she can plainly tell that he is raising an eyebrow, even though his skin is entirely hairless.

The moment draws on and he remains silent. 

"I take it, you mean to say, how do I think you're feeling?" she provides for him. "Well, Mr. Riddle, it is not my place for me to put words in your mouth, so I'd like it if you would begin, please."

He doesn't.

He remains still, watching her with indifference.

She swallows. "You could... perhaps tell me something about yourself, if you'd rather? Something about your day so far, something about your time here, within these walls? It doesn't matter, it can be anything you'd like to discu—"

"Hermione Granger."

Her name is only murmured in a soft breath, and yet, Hermione freezes.

Ten years. It'd been ten years since the battle of Hogwarts, ten years since she and her friends had had to hide, ten years since the verdict that had Lord Voldemort locked up for life.

Ten years... and though they'd never previously interacted, and though she’d grown over the years, he still recognises her, still remembers her name.

At her reaction, his dry lips curl inward, not _quite_ forming a smile. 

"The infamous mudblood friend of Harry Potter. Come to see _me_ of all people. How... fascinating." His voice is soft and gentle—peaceful even—but when he tilts his head, the action is snakelike.

Hermione shifts her seat, suddenly feeling like prey, and although she tells herself she's not, she's becoming rattled. "I am not here for a social visit, Mr. Riddle," she forces herself to say firmly. "I am here as a representative of the Ministry of Magic, and I would appreciate it if you would—"

"How _is_ Harry doing?" he interrupts, ignoring her. "After all of these years, would you believe that he hasn't come in for a _single_ visit?” He sighs, his slit-like nostrils flaring. “To be honest with you, Hermione, I'm almost a little bit... offended. I thought we were more to each other."

She takes a deep breath, tries to keep calm, to not allow her increasing blood pressure to get the better of her, but he's _mocking_ her. She puts down her quill. "The purpose of this afternoon's session is to perform your annual assessment of mental wellbeing and progress, and I would appreciate it if you wouldn't speak of Harry to—"

"Why did you choose to see me, Ms. Granger?" The question and his sudden shift in tone are abrupt. While he spoke gently moments earlier, now, his words are loud, rigid.

Hermione tucks her hands between her thighs and her chair, and forces herself not to shrink back into it. "I am here as a representative of the Ministry of Magic to assess your wellbeing," she repeats, her own voice hardening to match his, "and I simply would like to do my job."

Lord Voldemort leans in slowly, his eyes narrowing. "Answer me."

Hermione closes her eyes, feels the irritation prickling at her temples. "I didn't _choose_ anything—"

" _Liar_."

He hisses the word out and despite her best intentions, despite all the time she'd spent practising, it’s cold enough that Hermione flinches.

"They would never ask this of you. They wouldn’t dare to so much as think of it." He's bending forward toward her across the table now, and had his hands not been restrained behind his back with the shackles that kept his magic suppressed, she was sure he'd be even closer. "Never would they request that you, poor, _innocent_ Hermione Granger, come sit before me, all… alone.” He tilts his head to the other side, ever so slightly, eyes her down and back up. “No, do you know what I think?"

Hermione's instincts are positively screaming at her now— _look away look away look away_ —but she can't pull her eyes away from his. 

"I think you _asked_ to be here. I think you pushed and fought and stomped your feet until you got what you wanted, and I think what you wanted, was to see me." Voldemort licks his lips, and Hermione clenches her teeth to stop her jaw from trembling. " _Tell me why._ "

Her cheeks are hot, and her heart is thundering in her chest. It’s not entirely because she's _scared_ , though that’s definitely a factor, but mostly, it’s because she's been caught. 

She _had_ pushed and she _had_ fought, and yes, she _might_ have even stomped her feet a little bit to get Kingsley to agree to it, but she had to do it. She had to _know_.

For ten years, she'd wondered. For ten years, she'd pondered the secrets, the knowledge, the power that would die with him when the time came. For ten years, she'd been stealthily poking and prodding at Harry for more until he had no more to tell her. She’d read every book of him she could find, every newspaper article, every _mention_.

Tom Riddle had become her obsession, and she had to know.

How did he do it?

How was he so in _tune_ with his magic, in a way that only Dumbledore had ever been? What was she missing?

He was undoubtedly the greatest wizard left alive, and she needed to know.

If not his blood, what was it about him that was _different_?

"I..." His full, undivided attention rests heavily upon her, and she doesn't know why she does it. She knows that she shouldn't, she knows that even voicing it to herself would be bad enough, but something about the way he’s watching her has the truth sitting on the tip of her tongue, and now, it’s too late. She cannot stop it. "I wanted to meet you."

This time, when Lord Voldemort smiles, he shows his teeth. They are yellowed and blackened where they meet each other, but even still, they are straight. They are shaped nicely, like the pictures that her parents would use to show what a good set of teeth look like, and it is obvious that once, that very same smile could've been disarming.

"Good girl," he says slowly, drawing out the syllables, and though it shouldn't affect her, it does.

She has always been a sucker for praise.

"Now tell me _why_."


	2. Two

Once she starts, she has trouble stopping.

"I-I'm... curious. I want to know more. About you. There's only so much I can get from books, and Harry's..." Hermione feels herself flushing, but knowing from her discussions with Harry that flattery may be her best approach, she forces herself through it. "I want to know who you are. What you can do, how you do it, how you learned. While I may not approve of, well, almost entirely everything you've done... I can't deny that you're more than likely the only wizard of your calibre left alive. I wouldn't be able to forgive myself if I didn't at least... try to speak with you."

When she finishes speaking, the cold cell of Azkaban suddenly seems far quieter than it'd been when she'd started. Lord Voldemort remains motionless, watches her for a long time, and his features are so still that she can't tell whether he's angry, curious, offended, flattered.

Hermione's nerves build and in a bid to fight them, she presses her lips together, drives her nails into her thighs.

"You..." Voldemort eventually starts, and the suddenness of his voice makes her jump. "Wish to _interview_ me."

She shifts and crosses her legs to stop them from bouncing with anxiousness. His tone did not sound impressed. "I suppose so. In a sense, yes."

Creases form on his forehead. "You mean it," he says, and it is not a question.

Still, she gives him a swift nod, and he makes a soft sound of thought in response.

"Does Potter know you're here?" he asks slowly.

"Yes," she says too quickly, and then clarifies, "for the Ministry. He knows I'm here for the Ministry. But that's it. He doesn't know... that I wanted to be here."

Voldemort hums in interest and leans into the back of his chair. Then, there is a hollow, rhythmic tapping sound, and she presumes it must be coming from his shackles restraining his hands behind his back. The moment and the tapping drift on, and it is only then, when the tension of the pause has just about become too much to bear, that he eventually says, "very well."

She blinks. "'V-very well'?"

His bony shoulders rise in a small shrug. "Very well. I will humour you," he clarifies, and then he licks his lips, "though I very much doubt you will like what you find."

For a brief moment, Hermione considers that she might be imagining things. She had anticipated and prepared for many outcomes of this conversation, but what she hadn't expected, was for him to just... say yes.

"I—really?"

Voldemort's lips twitch. "Did you think you'd have to offer me a bribe? Coerce me?" He laughs then, and the sound of it makes her stomach turn. "Did you have your threats rehearsed and your gifts ready to place at my feet?"

When she doesn't answer, he laughs again and says, "you are not at all what I imagined."

Hermione shifts in her chair then, unsure of what to say. But then—

"Severus spoke of you to me," he says rather abruptly. "As did Lucius. _Hermione Granger._ They were both of the opinion that you are—and I quote—a bookish nuisance with a tendency to insert your nose into situations where it does not belong." He gives another quick laugh. "They really were quite _mean_."

Hermione is a grown woman. She has a successful career, a nice home, a plentiful fortnightly pay check, and yet, at his description of her, at his teasing, her cheeks catch fire.

Voldemort's eyes—as red as her cheeks are now, surely—are bright, plainly amused. "While I think it's fair to say that their accusations were correct, I do, however, see that they failed to mention your nerve," he says, before suddenly leaning forward over the table once more. "Tell me, for curiosity's sake—how was it that you had planned to convince me?"

As her eyes flick between his and she notices that his pupils are not round, she hesitates. They are sitting in a dimly lit cell and so, it's not surprising that they are dilated, but at the tops and bottoms, there are points, like the points of pupils that would belong to a cat.

Or to a snake.

She breaks their eye contact.

"I... initially was going to offer you some books," she says truthfully, staring at her hands, and though she'd intended keep her composure, her voice comes out barely as a whisper. "Many acclaimed authors have continued to publish over the last ten years, and Harry said that you... well. I thought you might like to read. I thought we could make a trade."

Hermione glances back up and watches as Voldemort's features slowly shift until he is smiling from the corner of his mouth. "And if I had refused your books?"

"I looked into it, and I know the only type of food served to inmates here is bread, canned vegetables, and seafood. I thought... maybe some homecooked meals might suit you better than books."

At that, he hums a low laugh. "And if even your cooking didn't tempt me? What then?"

Hermione's palms have started to sweat now, and so, she wipes them on her trousers. "I was going to recommend to the guards that they take away the few items you do have. Your blanket, your pillow, your toilet paper. For your own safety, of course."

His eyes do not leave hers. He doesn't say anything, and yet, Hermione cannot seem to stop herself from going on. "And then, if you still said no, I was... I was going to hex you, and give you a series of nasty boils down both your front and back, making it tricky for you to find a comfortable position to sleep in. They wouldn't heal naturally for weeks."

Voldemort remains silent for a long moment, but somewhere along the line as she'd been speaking, he'd started grinning. "And just, how, exactly, were you planning to go about hexing me?" he asks eventually, his smile staying firmly in place.

Hermione doesn't think about it, though she should have. Instead, she pushes her chair back from the table slightly, the legs scraping against the cool stone of the cell's flooring. She lifts her robe, and from within her surprisingly deep pocket, she pulls out a long, elm wand.

A well-known condition of entry to Azkaban is to forfeit one's wand at the gates, and so, to prepare for her visit, Hermione had purchased a spare. Then, after handing in her own registered wand to the guards, she'd simply smuggled it in using an undetectable extension charm she'd placed on her pocket.

It was risky. It was probably up there on the list of the stupidest things she'd ever done, but she'd figured that had she been caught with it in her possession, it would be the natural assumption that she'd sought to _harm_ Voldemort, not free him. For that, no one could blame her. She'd be suspended at most, surely.

Holding the wand at both ends, Hermione draws it up and rests it upon the table. Seeing Voldemort's expression as his eyes lock upon it, she thinks she has taken him by surprise.

Then, there is another long pause.

" _Ms. Granger_ ," Voldemort says slowly, incredulously, taking his time in meeting her eyes. Hermione is sure that the tightening of the muscles in her stomach has nothing to do with the low tone in which he'd spoken her name. "I must say, I am _most_ impressed. To think, Harry Potter's mudblooded sidekick, prepared to torture a man and break several federal laws in the process."

While he barks out a laugh, Hermione tightens her jaw, keeps the wand clutched between her hands. "I would do it," she warns, "in a heartbeat. And I wouldn't feel guilty, even if I did much, much worse to you. Don't forget that."

Though she'd tried to sound menacing, Voldemort's grin doesn't leave his face.

"Oh," he says then, drawling out a slurred laugh. "Oh, I _like_ you."

Her stomach twists.

"Well then," Voldemort soon says as his laugh trails off. "I suppose I should consider myself lucky that it hasn't come to that."

Hermione clears her throat and takes the wand back, tucking it back inside her pocket.

"But... now that we're on the topic, now that I've had a chance to think on it..." he says, his voice lowering, "there is, perhaps, _something_ I would like from you in exchange for my cooperation."

She tries not to think about what he could possibly want, but it's hard not to, and her voice still ends up coming out higher pitched than intended. "Oh?"

He pauses, and then says, "my hands."

At once, Hermione straightens. "No. That's—I don't have that sort of authority."

He gives her a closed-lip smile, looks her down and up. "Ah, but do you _need_ the authority?"

It takes a moment to click.

"That's—no!" She refuses at once. "No way! Even if I _could,_ I wouldn't—"

"Oh, so you're fine with a bit of torture when it suits you, but breaking a simple containment charm is out of the question?" he says.

"Yes! Yes, it is out of the question, because if I get caught, you're talking about a slap on the wrist versus a life sentence!" she says before taking a breath. "No. I won't do it. I can get you anything else; entertainment, anything that I've already mentioned. I might even be able to convince some people to visit, if you'd like, or... maybe even a pet? But I... removing your shackles is— it's not going to happen."

Voldemort purses his lips.

"That's a shame," he says, sighing. "And I was _just_ beginning to become intrigued by you, Ms. Granger."

Hermione exhales through her nose. "Please. Isn't there anything else? Anything at all—"

"No."

"But—"

"Ah, ah," he interrupts, and his grin has returned. "You brought the wand. You told me you were willing to use it. You were the one who revealed your hand to me. Don't back out now, Ms. Granger, lest I become of the opinion that you were bluffing the entire time."

Hermione opens her mouth, but no sound comes out.

He's entirely correct.

But she couldn't possibly remove his shackles. Even without his wand, the danger of it…

"I... I can't."

"Hmm," he sounds, glancing away thoughtfully. "Well then. It will be an awful shame for you when I tell the guards about the wand tucked away in your trousers."

Hermione freezes.

"And what would the _people_ think?" he asks rhetorically. "Hermione Granger. The people's mudblood. Caught red-handed breaking into Azkaban to liberate _me_ from my confines. I can just imagine the headlines now." He laughs again, and then says, "you're damned if you do, and damned if you don't."

Hermione's mouth settles into a thin line. "You won't tell them anything."

The muscles of his bare brows raise. "Oh, won't I? Do you think me too proud? Would you like to try me?"

She takes a breath, centres herself. "You won't tell them anything, because if you don't agree to what I'm offering you, I will alter your memory, and then the wand will have never existed."

Voldemort's features remain in place for a long moment, before slowly falling. She can see the cogs turning behind his eyes.

"You wouldn't," he eventually decides.

"I would," she says. "And believe me, I am very capable of casting a flawless memory charm. My parents lived happily for more than a year in Australia having forgotten I was ever even born."

He is scowling now, and it is that, that look of _anger_ , that tells her; she has won.

"But," she says, intentionally softening her tone. "We don't need to resort to that. In order to keep things... civil... I propose that you... give me a few days. I'll make some inquiries and see what I can do about your shackles, and in return, you'll keep quiet about what we've spoken about today. Think of it as… a test of trust."

Voldemort doesn't immediately say anything, but his nostrils flare.

"One day," he eventually grounds out.

"I'll need at least—"

"One. Day."

Hermione huffs through her nose. "Fine," she agrees, even though it's a stupid thing to do. She is the one with the advantage. “One day.”

She doesn’t say anything more then, and instead focuses on the paperwork she was supposed to be filling in. For a wellbeing and progress check, there were a number of routine questions she was supposed to be going through with him.

She picks up her quill and instead of answering the questions, she scribbles down, ‘inmate uncooperative. Will reattempt in 24 hours’.

As she’s writing, she can feel Voldemort’s eyes on her. She ignores him.

When she’s finished, Hermione collects the papers and her quill and takes her time in tucking them back into her folder, which she then neatly packs into her bag.

“Same time tomorrow?” she proposes politely.

Voldemort’s lips are curved upward, yet there is no warmth to it. "I will be waiting most eagerly, Ms. Granger."

She gives him a brief nod and rises, before heading to the door.

"Oh, and Hermione?"

Hand reaching for the door, she turns back to find him smiling properly. It’s strange how the expression seems even colder now, and it’s even stranger, the way his warped features seem to _suit_ him.

"Say hello to Harry for me when you get the chance, would you?"

Hermione gives him a final scowl, and when she knocks twice on the heavy, metal door, her heart accelerates in its beating.

A moment later, the door is unlatched from the outside and wrenched open, revealing the four armed guards by his cell door.

There is a quick moment, then, where she expects Voldemort to speak up, to call the guards, to tell them about her wand.

But he doesn't. All is quiet.

He keeps side of the bargain.

Hermione doesn't stop to think about it. Instead, she leaves the cell and she is sure not to look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lmao I didn't mean for this entire story to consist of a single conversation, but I just adore the dynamic between a grown up, fully fledged Voldemort and Hermione, and it just... sort of snowballed and wrote itself, soooo...


	3. Three

"No."

"Just hear me out—"

"It can't be done."

"But I really think if—"

"Hermione." Kingsley puts down his quill and gives her his full attention. "The mental health and wellbeing checks are a mandatory procedure that is forced upon us by the International Human Rights Board. The only reason—and I mean, the _only_ reason—that Lord Voldemort is included in these checks, is because the paperwork that would be required for an exemption would take months and months to sort through, and at present, we just don't have that sort of staffing to spare."

"But—"

"I'm sorry, Hermione. But at the end of the day, if his performance doesn't meet the requirements of the checks, then we'll alter his answers such that he passes."

Despite the identity of the particular inmate they're discussing, Hermione feels herself gape. "But that-that's unconscionable!"

Kingsley raises a thick brow and interlaces his fingers together atop of his desk.

"I think you know just as well as I do that if he deteriorates or decides to attempt suicide..." Kingsley trails off, lifts his shoulders, and he doesn't need to say it.

Because she does know.

There isn't a single soul on the planet who would care.

Hermione feels an odd pang of sympathy that she knows she shouldn't be feeling. She tries to dismiss it and slowly nods, pondering her options.

Kingsley's refusal doesn't leave her with many, but in the end, she chooses not to fight him on it. She knows a losing battle when she sees one.

"Thank you for your time."

* * *

Later that afternoon, Hermione takes her time in passing through the security gates at Azkaban.

She makes light small talk at the main gate, she comments on one of the guards' cologne at the second gate, and up on the thirty-eighth floor—the floor that houses a total of twelve guards and is exclusively reserved for the imprisonment of Lord Voldemort—she practically drags her feet.

The guards stationed his door look as though they understand her reluctance, even though they don't.

When she's let into the cell, Hermione finds him in the exact position she'd left him in, seated at the table, his hands restrained behind his back.

Though his crimson eyes immediately lock onto her, Voldemort doesn't greet her, shows no emotion.

Hermione has a sudden desire to turn and flee.

But she doesn't.

Instead, when the door falls shut behind her, she hesitantly lowers herself into the seat opposite him, returning his lack of greeting with her own silence, and arranges her folder and quill neatly on the table. When there is finally nothing left to fiddle with, she forces herself to meet his eyes.

She feels her heartbeat in her neck.

"The Minister..." she eventually says. "He denied my request."

Voldemort doesn't move and continues to watch her impassively, remaining silent.

Hermione sighs before leaning back and reaching into her deepened pocket. She reaches in until she finds the familiar plastic, and pulls it out. Then, she places the wrapped chocolate frog on the table between them. "I brought you this."

As soon as she's let go of the frog, she regrets doing so. It was a spare of the moment decision to bring it with her, one she'd made while she was caught up on the fact that he was starving in a cold cell all alone, and that no one cared whether he lived or died.

It’d been stupid.

Clearly Voldemort thought so too. Very slowly, his eyes flick down to the frog before gradually migrating back to her. His mouth twitches as he seems to be thinking over what to say.

He takes a deep breath in through his nose, and at the look he gives her, Hermione has the sudden urge to cower.

"And just _how_ , exactly, am I to unwrap your—" the skin covering the space where the bridge of his nose should be wrinkles, "— _offering_ , without use of my hands?"

The question hangs in the air and Hermione closes her eyes.

It's not too late.

She can back out.

_She can back out._

She doesn't, though.

"I... would like to offer you a compromise," she says slowly, taking time over each syllable.

Voldemort's eyes quickly roll, and he mumbles, "go on."

Hermione bites her bottom lip. "I am willing to personally... _try_ to remove your shackles, and—"

"Done."

"—then— wha—" Hermione splutters, "you haven't even heard what else I have to say."

"It doesn't matter," he says. "I accept."

The speed at which he speaks has that stupid, stupid feeling of sympathy rushing back in, the very same one she'd experienced earlier in Kingsley's office, despite knowing she should know better. He must truly be desperate.

"I will _try_ to remove your shackles," she repeats slowly, and when he doesn't interrupt her again, she follows it with, "but when we are done speaking, I will put them back on."

At that, Voldemort eyes narrow before he glances away. He stares thoughtfully down toward the corner of the room, and what feels like a full minute passes before he says, "it will take more than one visit for me to get through everything you said you wished to discuss."

Hermione nods. "We can have several sessions. Assuming that I can get them off, on each visit, I will remove your bindings, we will talk for as long as I can convince the guards we need, and then, when we are done, I will put them back on you before I leave."

His jaw tightens. "It would be much easier if—"

"No," she interrupts. "I'm putting myself, and the guards, and _everyone_ at an unspeakable amount of risk by offering you even this much. This is my one and only offer."

He meets her eyes then.

A long while passes while he thinks it over, and she notices that his eyes aren't _completely_ red. Toward the centre of his irises, near his odd-shaped pupils, there are small—minute, really—flecks of what looks like brown.

"Fine," he eventually breathes.

Hermione releases the breath she hadn't quite realised she'd been holding.

"And let me be clear with you," she says. "If you try to hurt me, or if I even so much as _think_ you're going to try to hurt me, I won't hesitate to signal to the guards."

"I wouldn't expect any less of you."

"And you have to promise me that you won't try to escape."

His lip twitches. "My understanding of a promise is that it only stands when the parties involved trust one another."

"Yes, well. You held your end of the bargain last time. You didn't speak to the guards when you could have, and now, I'm holding my end. That establishes trust," Hermione reasons, and then, she adds, "plus, I would also like it if you would swear on your life."

He doesn't _quite_ laugh at that—it's more of a snort. "Oh, forgive me. I hadn't realised that part was what made the difference."

"Just—it would make me feel better if you did." She insists, although now she feels rather silly. "Just promise me."

Voldemort shifts in his chair and looks her dead in the eye before he bends forward, getting as close to her as he can without moving from the chair. "I, Lord Voldemort, promise you, Hermione—"

He pauses, and it takes her a moment to realise why.

"Jean."

"— _Jean_ Granger, that I will not, under any circumstances, try to escape my confines here at Azkaban," he says. "And I swear it on my life."

It _had_ been a ridiculous thing to ask him to do, she knows, and hearing it aloud makes it seem all the more so. But still, Hermione clings to the small glimmer of hope that his life—the last thing he has left—means enough to him that he wouldn't put it at the risk of a broken promise.

Superstitions, and all that.

"All right," she says, and although her heart is now beating as if she'd sprinted up all of Azkaban's storeys, she is as reassured as she's going to get. "Stand up."

If being instructed to do something by her offends him, Voldemort doesn't show it. He obediently pushes his chair back and stands up, turning to the side in what is surely an invitation for her to inspect his shackles.

It's only when she's rounded the table that she appreciates how tall he is. Definitely taller than Harry. Not quite as tall as Ron, though.

From the back, she can see the bones of his shoulders and spine through the thin fabric that clothe him—but no. This time she won't let herself feel sorry for him. There are a great deal of things worse than malnourishment that could happen to him, and still, he'd be deserving of all of them.

The charmed metal shackles around his wrists are large, bulky, and they hold his slender hands together with only a few inches of wriggle room. Hermione stares at them. This is her last chance to back out.

But in the end, her selfishness wins her over, and she takes out her smuggled wand, extends it in his direction, and feels out for the magic that's laced around the shackles.

She's sure not to touch him as she goes.

The magic that resides in his restraints has the same feel to it that the charms at the Ministry have, the same feel that the stairs of Hogwarts had. It's _old_ magic, and it's a style of warding that she doesn't immediately recognise. But once she does, she thinks she can—

"The charm is Roman," Voldemort says, and she reflexively jumps at the breaking of silence. "Cato's Second Law of Disentanglement—try to find the—"

"There _isn't_ a weak spot," she snaps, gently touching the tip of the wand to the outer bracket of the metal wound around his left wrist. "It's like..." she thinks out loud, "it feels like it's hard... but _alive_ , like there's some sort of..."

"If it's solid and immovable, then there's a pressure point to the spell," he finishes. "Common style of warding from the seventeen-hundreds. Find where the charm is at its thickest and push through it." He speaks as though it should be simple.

"I'm... I'm _trying_ to, but it's... it's close, but it's not... not quite..."

"It will be where it feels hardest, where the charm is its most tangible," Voldemort says quickly. "But before you push, make sure that you check the threads around it exceedingly well, because if you're off by so much as a—I'm sorry, but was that a _growl_ , Ms. Granger?"

It _had_ been a growl.

"There's a layer _underneath_ the main charm," Hermione says, her voice straining in the way it often did when she tried to explain things to Ron. "Like there's two charms woven together, yet it's made of an entirely different fabric to the first layer, so would you just—just _be quiet_ , and let me try to... try to find the right..."

He sniffs loudly and from then on, he keeps quiet, though by the way he cranes his neck in attempt to see what she’s doing, she can tell it’s a struggle for him.

The minutes pass by while she works, and by the time she thinks she’s found it, the right thread to push through, she can’t help but release a breath of relief. For a moment, she’d been genuinely concerned she wouldn’t be able to break the charm.

And with a quick burst of heat… there.

She thinks she's done it.

Hermione gives the metal good, testing prod with her wand, and then, she's sure. She _has_ done it.

No trace of magic remains on the shackles.

Hesitantly, Hermione pulls the wand away and grips at the locking mechanism at the base of Voldemort's wrist, still taking care not to touch his skin. She turns the metal that threads through the cuff, and it—

It slips right through.

The cuff, released from the chain, falls to the ground with a loud clang, and almost immediately, Voldemort draws his hand away, almost as if he thinks she's immediately going to change her mind and lock him back up.

With the chain still attached to his left wrist, he brings his hands from behind his back around in front of his body, and for a moment, he doesn't move. He simply stares down at his hands. Then, slowly, he turns them over, inspecting them from both sides.

While she steps back, it dawns on her that it must've been many years since he'd even seen his own hands, and there it is again; that sympathy she shouldn't be feeling.

It doesn't linger for long though, because then, Voldemort suddenly lifts both of his arms up at once, and at the abrupt action, Hermione's wand is on him, but then—

He bends over toward the table, and he... he is stretching.

He makes a long, deep groan, slowly flexing his bony shoulders, one at a time.

"You..." He groans again, and the guttural sound of it almost seems... inappropriate. "You have no _idea_ how good that feels."

Hermione stays where she is, clears her throat somewhat awkwardly. She tightens her grip on her wand. "Yes, well..."

Voldemort takes his time stretching out his underused muscles. She doesn't have it in her to stop him from enjoying the simple pleasure, and as the minutes pass and she slowly becomes more confident that he's not going attack her, she gives her attention back to the shackles. And then, as she thinks back on the charms she'd just broken, her stomach starts to sink.

The charms had been exceedingly complex. What if... what if she can't put them back?

Undoing them was one thing, but replicating them...

Hermione steps forward and reaches for Voldemort’s wrist. With deft fingers, she unleashes the mechanism and pulls the metal off him before he can stop her.

When she snatches the fallen component from the floor and places them all together on the table, Voldemort asks, "what are you doing?"

She spreads the shackles out and ponders where to start. "I need to figure out how to replicate the charms,” she mumbles. “We only had an hour, and I've already wasted twenty minutes of it..."

Voldemort is quiet, stroking his hands over each other and flexing his wrists. "Do you _really_ have to?"

"Yes," she snaps without looking up. "I told you, if I'm caught doing this, then they'll have me in the cell next door before it gets dark."

He hums dismissively, and then says, "I wouldn’t mind a neighbour. It's been just myself and the guards for the last ten years, and it might all be in my head, but I don't actually think Dean and Oswald are particularly fond of me."

Hermione huffs and glances up. She finds him watching her expectantly, and so, she says, "you're not funny."

His lip twitches. "That's what Oswald said."

Feeling a headache coming on, she does her best to ignore him and focuses back on the shackles.

She hears him sigh, before he starts stepping around the room, rolling his shoulders, rubbing at the reddened marks around his wrists.

Hermione quickly gets so distracted by the work at hand, that she almost forgets who she’s in the room with.

"If you'd like...” Hermione jumps when his voice breaks the silence what feels like ten minutes later. “I could have a try."

She stops to glare. "No."

"I've lived under the constraints of that charm for ten years. I'm far more familiar with its magic than you are."

" _No._ "

"Well, you seem as though you’re having a little bit of trouble. If you can't get it, then what other choice will you have?"

"I-I'll just ask the guards for more time."

He makes a sound of interest. "And what will you do when they open that door and see me here, free and unchained?" He raises his hands demonstratively.

Hermione takes a deep breath and tries to focus back on the shackles. "I don't know," she eventually whispers.

"What was that?" he asks, leaning forward onto the table. "Did you just say, you _don't know?_ Ms. Granger, your entire reputation is built upon you having all of the answers, and now you're saying that you _don't know?_ "

"I'll figure it out," she mumbles, thinking back on how she'd untangled the first layer of the charm.

"Oh good. She'll figure it out, she says." He snorts to himself. "Good to see she has a plan—"

"Shut up."

He bends further down, and now, with his hands splayed on the table, he’s uncomfortably close. “You know, you are _just_ like Potter,” he accuses. “Like a dog chasing a car, without a single thought for what you’ll do if against all odds, you somehow manage to catch it.”

“ _Shut up_ —”

Like a viper, he lunges across the table, slamming his hands down and trapping her hands underneath his own.

His hands are cold, and it feels as though they are made of just bone and leather, and though there is no muscle tone left on him, his grip is _tight_.

His fingers are long, and she’s acutely aware of how close he is to the wand. _Too close_.

"There is another option before you," he says when she meets his eyes, voice low.

"Let go of me."

He doesn't. "Lock me back up without putting the charm back."

"Let _go_ of me."

"The guards do not enter my cell. They barely can bring themselves to look at me. They'll never notice if the charm isn't in place."

Hermione's breathing is shaky, now. "If you don't let me go _right now_ —"

"You'll what?" he asks, tilting his head, and it's odd, how he sounds _excited._ "What will you do?"

He’s so close that she can feel his breath, and though she’s tense with terror, she can’t move.

"Will you take away my things?” he asks, voice high and mocking. “Curse me so that I have trouble sleeping? Or will you call the guards, give yourself up before we've even begun?" Still, his grip does not loosen, and he moves even closer still. "You've made your bed now, Ms. Granger," he says and then he murmurs, "why don't you relax, lay down a while?"

Her muscles are poised, and she's about to snap, to push him off and point her wand and send him flying back to the other side of the cell, but then—

She’s—

She is overreacting.

She sees that, sees that he's right, and it’s suddenly quite simple. She hasn't gotten a single answer out of him yet, and he's not hurting her. His touch is cold and unpleasant, but it doesn't hurt.

Why should she ruin their arrangement when it hasn't even started over a simple touch?

Her muscles relax, and slowly, Hermione breathes.

And just like that, like he feels it in her hands, he lets her go.

"Good," he says.

When he leans back and her personal space is returned to her, Hermione grips onto the wand, blinks firmly.

"Now. Leave the charm off," he proposes once more, "and we can think of it as... another test of trust," he says, throwing her words back at her. "You'll be back tomorrow, and besides, how much could I possibly get up to in less than twenty-four hours, hmm?"

Hermione snorts and rubs her hands, warming them. "Shall I write you a list?"

"I could unlock the shackles, I think, and I could probably get the door to open," he concedes, sitting down opposite her. "But do you think I could incapacitate the four wizards at my door, get past the security out in the foyer and the rest of the building, and then out past all of the wards in place around this island? All without a wand and on a diet of water and breadcrumbs? After not having cast a single spell in ten years? Ms. Granger, while I am flattered by your confidence in me, and while I am capable of understanding your reservations... you're wasting our time. You needn't worry. Come tomorrow afternoon, I will still be right where you left me, charm or no charm."

Hermione watches him for a long time, her eyes flicking between his.

It... it makes sense. And now he's put it into words, it _does_ seem as though his escape is exceedingly unlikely...

She swallows. "I... if I agree... if I leave you here without the containment charm, and then you do, somehow, get out... I wouldn't be able to live with myself."

There’s a long pause.

"Ah, but Hermione… our time is just about up,” Voldemort says, giving her a slow, solemn smile while he leans just a little bit closer. "What other choice do you have?"


	4. Four

That night, Hermione does not sleep.

* * *

Though the night and day tick by agonisingly slowly, they still pass, and on her visit to Azkaban the next day, Hermione arrives early. When she gets there, she practically races through the building, even though she finds a small amount of comfort in the fact that she isn't turned away at the gates.

Surely, _surely_ , if Voldemort had gotten free, security wouldn't allow anyone to even step foot in Azkaban, Ministry employee or no.

When she reaches his floor, she half expects the guards to be frantic, or even worse, dead.

But they're not. They're just as grouchy as usual, and they even seem rather bored.

Surely another good sign. _Surely_.

They take their time with their greetings and security checks, and when they're complete and she is walked to Voldemort's door, her heart is racing for what she'll find. Sharing none of her concern, the larger of the two guards waves his wand and wrenches the heavy door of the cell for her, offering her entry. She takes one step forward, and—

Hermione freezes in the doorway.

Because inside of the cell, patiently sitting politely at the lone, rickety table—

Is not Lord Voldemort.

In his place, there is a man, about forty or so. He is sitting tall and straight, and his arms are restrained behind his back. He is thin and there are the beginnings of grey at the edges of the dark hair on his head, and his eyes are tired, yet still, he appears well-groomed. Handsome, even.

Hermione immediately turns to the guards, but they—

They look as though nothing is out of the ordinary. They are just as bored as ever.

Hermione blinks, slowly turns back to the man in the cell, and she doesn't immediately underst—

"Ms. Granger."

The seated man in the cell smiles, and Hermione's heart skips a beat.

She's come to know that smile. And now that she's looking at him properly, she can see that his eyes are red, and though his features are different, there's a familiarity about him.

"What..." She takes another hesitant step into the cell. "What is this?"

He tilts his head, eyes rounded in innocence. "Whatever do you mean?"

Hermione, slightly reassured but not entirely, properly enters the cell now, and when the guards close the door behind her, she jumps at the loud bang of metal.

Slowly, now that they're alone, she forces herself to breathe and lowers herself into her usual seat on the door-side of the table. She leans in slightly closer toward who she can only presume is Voldemort, searching his features for any sign of a glamour. She doesn't see one.

"What did you do?" she asks.

He smiles from the corner of his mouth. "Most prefer me this way," he says simply. "Don't you?"

"It's... it's not a glamour... but maybe... is it transfiguration?"

Voldemort clicks his tongue. "I didn't peg you as the sort to jump ahead. I believe in our first meeting, you expressed interest in speaking to me... from the beginning."

Before Hermione can speak, there is the sound of metal falling to the ground, and then Voldemort shifts, bringing his now freed arms back in front of him.

"Ah," he sounds, a hollow crack coming from his shoulder when he rolls the joint.

Hermione frowns. She'd anticipated him to have no difficulty with the lock on his shackles now that they were no longer enchanted, but transfiguring his own features... that was advanced magic. _Exceedingly_ advanced, considering he didn't have a wand. But then—

"But the guards didn't notice," she realises out loud. "Did they?"

Voldemort stays silent as he continues stretching his arms, but now there's a slight curve to his lips.

"So, it can't be transfiguration either, or else they'd have panicked the moment they laid eyes on you. So then... it must be something specific to _me_ , or—or the proximity?"

He meets her eyes, and though they are still the colour of blood, they look as though they're sparkling. "Where would you like to begin, Ms. Granger?" he asks as if she'd asked him nothing at all.

"Tell me what you did," she insists, and though she doesn't want to be, she's impressed. Whatever it is he's done to his appearance looks extremely natural, and had she run into him on the street looking like this, she never would've suspected that it wasn't.

"I'll tell you once you figure it out." Voldemort brings his hands in front of him and laces his fingers together. "Until then, I believe we're rather short on time, so...?"

Hermione frowns. It's nagging at her and she wants to keep badgering him, to force him to tell her what sort of magic he'd managed. But... he wasn't wrong. They _were_ short on time and without him resembling his usual self, she must admit, it _is_ more comfortable to be around him this way.

And so, Hermione purses her lips and keeps her questions to herself while she thinks. Where _did_ she want to start?

She thinks it over and it's only after she's fished out her quill and pad of parchment and the silence has started to become awkward, that she decides, "could you... what was your first experience of magic?"

If the personal nature of the question bothers him, Voldemort doesn't show it. Instead, he relaxes into his chair and his brows shift thoughtfully. "The earliest occasion I recall that stands out to me, was when I was seven," he answers without any need for further prompting. "When I was a child, I lived around many others, and like most children—"

"At the orphanage, you mean," she interjects. "Wool's."

He sighs and his eyes move as if he'd been about to roll them but stopped himself at the last moment. "Yes," he says. It sounds a little bit forced. "And like most children, we fought. About who would get the first plate of breakfast, who would get the closest spot to the fire in winter, who got to read the few books which still had all of their pages intact—mundane, silly things.

"But one day in the middle of the summer, I was out in the gardens, as I often was. I found a grass snake by a stack of branches toward the creek, and we had a rather pleasant conversation. I remember it quite vividly; I heard it speaking to itself, something about a frog it had caught in the water, and when I approached him and asked him to repeat himself a little bit louder, he seemed rather surprised."

Voldemort meets her eyes and pauses, and then, he hisses, long and slow.

Though she should be repulsed, at the natural way it leaves his lips and at its _silkiness_ , the hairs on Hermione's arms stand on end.

"What... what was that?" she asks once he's stopped, a little bit enthralled.

He smiles, and with his altered features, it suits him. It's almost _cheeky_ , the way he smiles, and Hermione wonders whether this is what he'd have naturally looked like if not for his... transformation.

"That's what the snake said to me." He repeats the same sound, but even slower this time. "Roughly translates to 'warm-blooded one'."

Hermione had heard Harry speak in parseltongue on numerous occasions. But on none of those instances had it sounded anywhere close to as natural as the way Voldemort spoke it, and on none of those instances, had Hermione found it so... appealing.

"Like I said," Voldemort goes on, and thankfully, he seems to not have noticed the heat in her cheeks, "it was a pleasant conversation, and we spoke for a long while. But then, one of the other children heard, and came over to see what I was doing. The snake was more curious about me than he was scared of the boy, and so, he didn't move. Billy took one look at the snake before he thought he'd try to step on it to kill it. So, I told him to stop, and..." Voldemort pauses, gives a small smile, "he did."

When the moment starts to drag and he doesn't go on, Hermione presumes that's the end of the story. "Was it... was it the snake, or the boy?" she asks, and when she realises that she'd whispered the question, she clears her throat. "That made you realise it was magic, I mean?"

Voldemort's smile grows wider, and he says simply, "Billy would've done anything I told him to."

Hermione's stomach twists. It's an effort not to think about all he might've done in the three years prior to attending Hogwarts to torment the other children of the orphanage. But then, she doesn't suppose it's relevant to what she wants to gain from him, and now that she's thinking of Hogwarts...

"All right, so, then if we fast forward a few years," she begins, "when you started at Hogwarts, how did you find it? Was it—"

"No, no," he interrupts, raising a hand. "No, Ms. Granger, I told you mine. Now you must tell me yours."

Hermione's lips thin. "That wasn't our agreement—"

"Ah, ah," he interrupts again, "it's only fair."

She huffs, gives her eyes a quick roll. "If you _must_ know... I was nine," Hermione says, deciding that giving in will be quicker than arguing. "I'd borrowed a book from my father, one of his favourites. I took it to school with me and was reading it on my lunch break, but... there was a girl. Her name was Lucy, and she never liked me much. She snatched the book, and when I tried to get it off of her, I think she saw how important it was to me, so she tore out a handful of pages, and stomped them down into the dirt. I was so upset."

When she pauses, she notices that Voldemort's expression is... strange. Now, with more human-like features, it's easier to read him, and his lips are ever so slightly parted as if he's... excited. Like he's anticipating the end of her story before she's revealed it, and he likes the ending he's found.

But it's then that she realises she's staring at his lips, and so, Hermione glances down, tries not to think about it.

"Anyway, I smuggled it home that night, and I was so afraid to tell my father. I just knew he'd be furious with me. I cried all night, and it wasn't until the morning, when I was forced to hand the book back that I plucked up the courage to face him. When I gave it back, I immediately started apologising, begging him to forgive me, but when he looked at it... the book was intact. All of it's pages were accounted for and completely dirt-free."

When she's finished, she dares to look up to see his reaction.

He looks rather disappointed.

"Well," he says after a pause, "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised by that. It's only fitting, based on what I know of you."

She straightens. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He tilts his head. "That you have a deep appreciation for the written word, and that you're a _stickler_ for the rules," he states.

She raises an eyebrow. "But I'm here, aren't I?" she points out. "I wouldn't think that this constitutes me _sticking to the rules_ —"

"No, but you're also self-righteous, to the point where you're willing to overlook the rules when you think it serves what you perceive as the greater good," he says. "Hmm. You're actually quite the hypocrite, now that I think about it."

"Hypo—that's rich, coming from you!"

He shrugs. "It's the truth, and it's also why your intentions to learn from our little arrangement here will fail. While I'm happy to indulge you for as long as this has its benefits for me, you are far too rigid to learn a thing from me. Surely you know that."

"E-excuse me?!"

"You are too rigid," he says louder.

Her features settle into an unimpressed glare. "And what exactly do you mean by—"

"I _mean_ , that you are far too focused on the right way and the wrong way, how to do what daddy says, how to follow the person ahead of you," he says, and it's sudden, the way he seems frustrated, worked-up now. "When in reality, magic is not made of hard lines and crisp corners. It's more of... an atmosphere, an ocean. Around us always. We are made of it, and it is made of us. Once you tap into that, once you _understand_ that... no longer will it rule you. Though I suppose someone of your heritage would struggle with such a concept."

Hermione blinks. As he'd spoken, Voldemort had been passionate, enthralled, _angry_. But Hermione... she's an odd blend of offended and confused.

Voldemort smiles then as if he knows what she's thinking before he opens one of his palms and holds it facing upward. "Take this flame," he says, and then a small, flame of fire flickers to life just above his skin, shining its light back onto his face. It makes his eyes look hollow and his cheekbones look sharp. "Once, many, many years ago, a wizard managed to conjure a flame. He practiced it, perfected it, and shared this knowledge with others in the form of a spell, so that they too, could conjure the flame and replicate what he'd done.

"But at its heart, at its beginning, the spell that first created this flame—and every other spell that exists for that matter—is not truly needed at all." His eyes flick pass over the flame to meet hers. "As a magical being of magical blood, the ability to cast a spell doesn't come from the incantation and it doesn't come from the wand movement, though they certainly help. It comes from the _intent_. It comes from your ability to perceive the matter within you and around you, and it comes from your ability to understand that everything is connected. Once you see that and you can feel that fabric... all that magic is truly about is how you _manipulate_ it."

Silence falls between them, and his eyes are the colour of _passion._

"But..." Hermione cannot help herself. "Even wandless magic requires the incantation."

The flame in Voldemort's palm disappears and he leans back, glancing down his new nose at her. "You see?" He sniffs. "You are much too rigid."

She huffs. "I'm not too _rigid,_ I'm simply stating the facts! Wandless magic _does_ require incantations, it just doesn't need them to be spoken aloud."

"Then you've been taught wrong," he states. "To have proper control, you can't think about magic in straight lines and set spells, because they will limit you. You need to understand that the only real limit, is what you can imagine."

"That's nonsense," she declares.

"Then tell me, Ms. Granger; how was it that you were you able to repair your father's favourite book, all of those years ago?" he asks, leaning slightly forward. " _Hmm?_ "

At his smugness, Hermione's sense of irritation prickles. "That's different," she mutters.

"It is no different at all," he laughs, and the lightness of it is very close to condescending. "You wanted something. You wanted it so badly that you _willed_ it to happen, with no wand, no incantation. Such instances are that of _true_ , instinctual magic. The textbook variety taught in schools doesn't compare. "

Beneath the table, her leg bounces in agitation. "The mechanisms of childhood magical occurrences haven't been studied thoroughly enough for us to understand what drives such events."

Voldemort laughs. "Now you're just being willfully ignorant."

"My not agreeing with you doesn't make me ignorant!"

His laugh grows louder and Hermione clenches her fists.

When his laughter slows, he runs his hand down his own jaw in thought. It's remarkable how _real_ his skin looks, and it only makes her angrier.

"When you go home this evening, Ms. Granger..." he says as if they'd been having a perfectly pleasant discussion, "I'd like for you to try it."

Hermione, taken aback, raises her eyebrows without control. "You're giving me _homework?_ "

At that, he smiles slowly. "When you get home, I'd like you to tuck your wand away, somewhere far out of temptation's reach. Then, I'd like you to sit somewhere calm and quiet, and picture it all around you—the magic that exists not just within you or within an object, but in all of the spaces in between." He leans forward toward her, splaying his large hands on the table. "And then, when you think you've grasped it, have a think of something that you _want_. Something simple, yet something you don't know the wand movements or the incantation for."

While he'd been speaking, his voice had somehow turned from patronising to _seductive_ , and with him leaning toward her, she has a hard time meeting his eyes.

"And then, once you've done that, I'd like you to try to _get_ it."

Unable to bring herself to do it, she glances over to the cell wall and mutters, "yes, and while I'm at it, I'll head out on a hunt for some whackspurts, shall—"

" _Don't_."

At the abrupt, harsh shift in his tone, Hermione flinches and glances up.

Like the flick of a switch, his features have hardened, and with the way his eyes are trained on her, it's the first time in his cell that Hermione's felt the sharp prickling of fear. And even though the feeling is building, now that she's met his eyes, she is stuck and she can't look away.

"If you want to learn from me," he says venomously, voice dropping low with warning, "then you will not speak down to me."

Hermione doesn't know why she does it. She knows that somewhere deep down, she doesn't want to, and yet, it takes no time to make the decision, no thought. Her eyes don't leave his when she nods.

Voldemort's lips twitch. " _Good._ "

He leans back, and then, the switch flicks back. The skin around his eyes softens and his lips spread in a smile that _almost_ seems warm.

It's jarring, and suddenly, Hermione can breathe again.

"Then I look forward to seeing you tomorrow, Ms. Granger."

* * *

Hours later, Hermione stays up long after Crookshanks and the birds outside have gone to sleep.

She crosses her legs and closes her eyes, and when she's settled, she thinks about flying. She knows that it's possible, knows that Voldemort himself has done it.

It can't be too hard.

She sits in her living room and tries to do as he instructed, tries to push herself up into the air without any form of spell work. And it must be possible, she reasons, for how else would one ever create a spell?

But as the hours pass and it doesn't work for her, when the clock eventually strikes one a.m., she is so frustrated that she gives up.

He'll have something rude to say about her failure, she knows, but she's so tired that she doesn't have it in her to care. She'll try again tomorrow.

Although she's exhausted, Hermione doesn't immediately fall into sleep. She's too distracted by her thoughts of their conversation, thoughts of whatever magic he'd used to alter his appearance, thoughts of _him_.

He is... different. Far removed from the perception that she'd spent her life building of him.

But she supposes that's what he wants her to think and that that's where the danger is, and so, she tells herself never to forget that he's a monster.

She won't, she thinks. Not ever.

And when sleep finally takes her, Hermione's dreams that night are filled with hissing.


	5. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a slow ass writer these days, soz! thanks to everyone who nagged me, I appreciate it and I appreciate you <3

Hermione's midday trips to Azkaban are becoming normal, and it feels like her increased heart rate is too.

She's nervous again, nervous that she'll walk in to see an empty cell, but when she reaches Voldemort's floor and she's let inside, she once more finds him seated at the table, waiting patiently right where he's supposed to be, again resembling the same dark-haired man from her previous visit.

His presence does little to calm her nerves, though she supposes that being nervous around Lord Voldemort is only natural.

"How did you go then?" he asks in a tone that's very close to eager once the door closes behind her, his voice loud and abrupt.

Hermione glances away and takes her time in taking her seat, before she mumbles, "fine."

"Just... 'fine'?"

She clears her throat. "I have a substantially longer list of things I wanted to get through today," she says instead of answering him. "It is becoming increasingly difficult to arrange additional meetings, and if we're to have any chance of getting through everything I wished to discuss, then it's best that we don't waste any time."

"Ah," he sounds with mild interest as he slips his shackles off of his own wrists. The sound of the metal falling against the stone floor rings loudly in the enclosed space. "I take it then, that you didn't have much success."

While he stretches his long limbs out above his head and rolls his joints, Hermione huffs. "Such a... a _blasé_ approach to performing magic is simply not how it should be done. If it were as simple as thinking of what you want and _willing_ it, then there wouldn't have been centuries upon centuries of wasted studies into wandlore, spellwork, and wand movements," she states, unable to stop her argument even though she knows she's only indulging him.

He tuts as he leans back into his chair, folding his slender arms across his chest. "I didn't take you as the sort to simply hang up your hat and _quit_ , Ms. Granger."

"I _didn't_ —" This time, she stops herself from taking his bait and sighs loudly. Then, she calmly takes out her quill and parchment before she laces her fingers together. "Today I wanted to fast forward to your years at Hogwarts. Your experience there, the teaching methods that may have changed over the last half a century, how you were received by your teachers, your peers."

To that, he makes a sound low in his throat, and it's coarse enough that it's just about a groan. "We can sit here and gossip if you'd like, but you'll find there is little to be gained from revisiting the past."

"There is everything to be gained," she counters. "I can only assume that the teaching methods that you grew up with were quite different to the ones I encountered through my own years of schooling."

"Oh, and yet, when I attempt to teach you, you actively choose not to learn from me," he mumbles.

She huffs again, louder than the first time. "That's entirely different."

"I offered you a new perspective to performing magic," he says, meeting her eyes while he brings his hands atop of the table and starts rubbing at his thin wrists. "Is that not what you've ultimately come to me for? To learn, to better your own skills, to sate your curiosity?"

She pauses, breathing through her nose, and once more notices the vivid contrast between his crimson eyes and the alabaster sheen of his skin. Now that he's wearing near normal features, the combination isn't so jarring as much as it's... almost... _alluring_.

"Yes," she quickly concedes, clearing her throat as she realises that the pause has becoming awkward. She intentionally glances away from his eyes ever so slightly to remove their distraction. "But I wish to do that by learning about your life, your experiences, and the way you were trained."

At once, he straightens. "' _Trained'?_ " he repeats, and she sees it, hears it in his voice; she's offended him.

"Pardon," she murmurs, quickly realising her mistake. "Taught, I should have said."

He pauses and scoffs before he says, "then we will do it my way."

It’s clear that she's angered him, and even if she hadn't noticed the whitening of his knuckles, it would've been obvious. And although she can almost hear Harry whispering warnings in her ear, she ignores it.

She's the one in control here. Not him.

"No," she says, standing her ground and gripping onto her stowed wand in her pocket. "You agreed to this arrangement. If you are unwilling to speak with me, then I will have the containment charm put back in place and I won't return."

The silence that follows is thick, charged, but Hermione doesn't let herself flinch. She holds his eye contact and tightens her jaw.

Then, ever so slowly, Voldemort leans forward onto the table, resting on his elbows, and though he's sneering at her and she knows it's supposed to be menacing, she suddenly finds herself distracted.

Because now, with the upward curve of a sneer on his lips, she can see it. With his altered appearance, he looks younger, yes, and at the first glance, he looks like an entirely different person, but... there is still, beneath it all, a subtle resemblance to the older, hairless and snakelike Voldemort she'd grown accustomed to. It's in his bone structure, the movements of his features, the shape of his eyes. And just as suddenly as she'd been distracted, Hermione finds that she just _needs_ to know.

"Who... who is that?" The question escapes her before he has the chance to snap back at her, and for the shortest of seconds, he seems taken off-guard, confused.

"Who is who?" he asks.

"That." She gestures broadly at him. "Who you are now?"

He exhales as if she's said something amusing and his sneer fades, ever so slightly. Then, there is another pause before he gives a slight shrug, and as though he's entirely forgotten about being angry, he smiles, and it looks like it might be _nostalgic._ "Myself," he says simply.

"You mean—"

"Before my curse rebounded upon me and I was required to fashion myself a new body... this is who I was." He glances down at his chest, at his hands. "Most feel more comfortable with this exterior, though they'd never dare to say as much aloud."

At that, Hermione can't control her snort. "Why would you care what I think of you?" she asks, and at the thought of him being considerate about her _comfort_ has her upper lip curling without her control. "I already think you're a monster. You might as well be honest with me and be the one you are."

He tilts his head. "Ah, but this is what you wanted, is it not?" He leans slightly further in, and as his lips quirk on one side to form an almost playful smile, Hermione's stomach drops. "To _know_ me?"

"I..." The way he's smiling is distracting, more distracting than his anger had been, and she's not blushing—she's _not_ —but she averts her eyes anyway. "That's not exactly what I meant. I don't need you to pretend to be something you're not to speak with you. That's all."

He ducks his head slightly in an attempt to force her to look at him, and when she rolls her eyes, he laughs. And then, he bites into his lip before he says, "are you saying you don't like it?"

Voldemort suddenly leans back in his chair, and as he does, she looks up just in time to see his entire form shift.

The shift is all at once, not at all like the effects of the polyjuice potion, not at all like transfiguration. One moment, she's sitting across from a perfectly handsome, albeit tired looking man, and the next, he is once more the monster she's come to know as Lord Voldemort.

It's suddenly as if the air in the cell has dropped several degrees.

"Is this better?" he asks, and his voice is higher now.

Instinctual fear pits in the base of her stomach, but even still, even despite her urge to push her chair back and distance herself, her curiosity still somehow manages to win over. "H-how did you do that?"

He smiles again and now, with his monstrous features back in place, it's more menacing than warm. "Or would you prefer something a little bit more..."

He trails off, and then it's not Voldemort before her, but—

_Ron._

Hermione stiffens.

"H... how are you doing that?"

Ron—Voldemort—tilts his head, and in Ron's familiar tone, he says, "you haven't figured it out yet, Ms. Granger?"

The image of Ron sitting before her with Voldemort's vivid, blood-red eyes is the material of her nightmares, and it quickly has her tasting stomach acid.

But then, she notices the details. The lines in Ron's skin by his eyes, the slightly longer hair he'd grown out in recent years, the uneven stubble he refused to shave off no matter how many times she told him he should. They were only small things, but they were all things Voldemort couldn't possibly know about Ron, not anymore, not unless he'd seen him recently, which could only mean—

"You... you've been in my head," she concludes in a whisper, and the realisation is like a bucket of cold water.

Her accusation lingers in the air between them for a long pause before Ron—Voldemort—slowly begins to smile.

He bites down into Ron's lip as if he's been caught doing something _cheeky_ , and then says, "if it's any consolation, Ms. Granger, you have a very... fascinating manner of thought. _Rigid_... but fascinating, all the same."

She feels dirty, violated, and she knows there isn't a scourer rough enough in existence to scrub herself clean. He's been poking around in her mind, and she hasn't even _noticed_ it.

Her training at the Ministry had included Occlumency, and she'd thought herself adept at it. Her instructor all of those years ago had even told her that her technique was rather good, and she'd been sure to be careful in her meetings with Voldemort. But for her to not even _notice_ —

Suddenly, Voldemort shifts again, and he is once more the younger man he'd been at the start of their meeting—Tom Riddle. His _true_ self, she supposes.

He's still smiling at her, and although she's furious, although she wants to yell and screech at him, she doesn't miss the fact that his transformation, just like the others, had been fluid, flawless. If it's a type of transfiguration, then his technique really is impeccable.

When she meets his eyes, Voldemort licks his lips, and even though her instincts are insistent that she pull her wand and demand he stay out of her thoughts, yet again— _yet again_ —her own curiosity beats her to the punch.

"It... _how are you doing that?_ " she asks again. "How is it specific to me? What you're doing to alter your appearance, I mean. It’s got to be transfiguration, but why haven't the guards noticed?"

He thrums his fingers on the tabletop, watches her contemplatively. "You are thinking on it much too hard," he says, as if there's a joke that she's not yet in on. "When really, sometimes magic isn't about what it is. It's about what it isn't."

Hermione's eyes narrow. "What?"

He simply shrugs and Hermione has a sudden desire to throw her quill at him.

"But of course it's magic," she snaps when he doesn't say anything. "I've watched you change into three different people in under a minute. What else could it be?"

"I don't recall saying that it wasn't magic."

"B-that's what you just said! You said, it's about what it isn't!"

"Yes. I said that magic is about what it isn't. Tell me, Ms. Granger, have you always struggled with language comprehension, or is it a recent development?"

The beginning of a headache starts to prickle behind her eyes.

"Just—tell me how you're doing it."

"Ah, but what sort of teacher would I be if I were to spoon feed my student?"

She glares. "I'm not asking you to _teach_ me, I'm asking you to answer my questions."

He sniffs. "That's hardly a learning attitude."

Hermione stops, closes her eyes, and breathes deeply. It takes a great deal of effort—a monumental amount even—not to call him insufferable, but somehow, she manag—

“I do believe that of the two of us, it is in fact _you_ , Ms. Granger, who has the reputation for being insufferable.”

She nearly screeches. " _Stay out of my head_ ," she seethes.

He smiles from the side of his mouth as he shrugs. "If you can keep me out, then I will."

"Stay out of my head, or else I'll leave you here to _rot_."

Her threat doesn’t appear to have the effect she intended, and his smile only grows. "No, you won't."

"Do you want to try me?" Hermione pushes her chair back as if to get up and grabs her bag to show him that she’s not bluffing.

"You haven't had any luck replicating the containment charm yet, have you?" he asks, and just like that, she deflates.

Because he’s right. She hasn't yet had any luck at all, and she only has herself to blame for not putting the effort in.

But he doesn’t need to know that.

"Well _actually_ , I have, thank you very—"

"Don't lie to me," he cuts her off. "I can see it clear as day, just as I can see your plans for dinner, your failed little attempt at flying last night, your _anguish_."

Hermione’s heart starts to pump a little bit harder. "That's—I don’t know what you’re talking abo—"

"When was the last time you saw dear Harry, hmm?" Voldemort asks gently over her, and it's enough to bring Hermione to silence. "Or your other friend, Ronald? It's been... quite a long while, hasn't it? While they've been caught up in their lives, in their new families, they've left you all alone, and forgotten about you, haven't they? And that's why you're here, why you're _really_ here. Because you can’t let it go." His features soften, and with his human-like features, it almost looks genuine. "Poor Hermione Granger, unable to let go of the past, unable to move on the way they have... it must be awful..."

Hermione's heart is racing now, and her stomach sinks lower and lower as he trails off, because again, he's right.

She hasn't seen Harry in more than passing in months and hasn't seen Ron at all in even longer. She's only met Harry's son James twice, and hasn't had the chance to meet Ron and Lavender's little girl at all. They've been far too busy for her, and she's never been much good at making new friends, and the loneliness _was_ getting to her.

He's reading her like a book, and he's _right._

" _Get out of my_ —" Hermione stops, but she can't compose herself. "How-how _dare_ you!"

He laughs, grinning as he leans back in his chair. "You knew what you were doing when you came to see me," he says. "Are you this surprised when a cat kills a bird? When a dog chases a stick, when a hen lays an egg? What did you expect?"

"Some... some _boundaries_ for one! A bit of respect, may—"

"Oh-ho, 'respect', did you say?" he interrupts, his voice rapidly hardening. "' _Respect'?_ Perhaps, the same sort of respect you showed toward my soul?"

While she freezes, her stomach continues to plummet.

"Oh _yes_ ," he says with a sneer, and there's a hiss to the way he pronounces it. "Yes, I know all about your little trip into my chamber... how you _defiled_ it with your presence..." His sneer deepens. "How you defiled _her_..."

"I... I'm not—"

"How did it feel, Ms. Granger, to hold a piece of me in your own hands and _murder_ it?" he asks over her, leaning in across the table, and he's too close now, much too close.

"I..."

"Did it make you feel powerful? Hmm? Did you _like_ it?"

There’s something about his eyes. It’s as if they’ve caught her and she can’t look away, couldn’t if she tried, and the truth just spills out of her—

"It... it was the most repulsive thing I've ever done."

There is a long pause, and the temperature somehow seems to drop even lower. And then, when he laughs, it’s chilling to the bone. "Even more repulsive than setting me free?"

Her brain turns sluggishly, and it takes a moment to process what he'd said. "...What?"

Voldemort grins, and his laugh grows louder, and it's high-pitched and mocking. "You stupid, foolish girl." His laugh gets higher still, more intense, and when she rears back, shivers pass up and along her spine. "Did you really think that you could contain Lord Voldemort with a _locked door?_ "

She goes to stand up, but he strikes like a viper, his cold hands clasping down onto hers, his nails driving into her skin.

"Did you really think I'd just _let you go_ after what you did?"

He releases one of her hands, and then somehow, his free hand isn’t free anymore, and in it, there is a basilisk fang.

"What is it that the muggles say, hmm?” His voice drips with malice. “ _An eye for an eye?_ "

Hermione’s heart thunders in her ears. "N—"

In a single, smooth movement, he plunges the fang down into her hand, through the tendons, between the bones, and when she screams, he only laughs louder, and at the combined sounds—

She wakes up.

Darkness surrounds her, and it takes Hermione a moment to work out where she is, but when she registers the suede fabric of her sofa beneath her and the softness of Crookshanks' fur at her feet, relief immediately starts to course through her veins.

She clutches her hand to her chest and feels it out, and after establishing that it's still intact and there aren’t any stab wounds, Hermione snatches her wand from the coffee table and spells the light on.

She’s not in Azkaban. She's in her living room, and aside from Crookshanks, she's alone, and she's safe.

Hermione continues to breathe in a bid to calm herself, and as she does, there are several things she becomes acutely aware of.

One, is that she's sure her dream hadn't been entirely a dream. She remembers it as vividly as any other day, and she's sure that aside from the basilisk fang, their conversation must've really happened.

The second, is that she's wearing the same outfit she'd worn to Azkaban in her dream, the same one she distinctly remembers questioning him in, and so, she’s sure that _it must've really happened._

But while those points are worrying enough on their own, it's the third thing that worries her the most; she has no recollection of actually _leaving_ Azkaban. No recollection of her journey home, of feeding Crookshanks, of falling asleep. It’s as if the memory has been wiped entirely from her mind, and she has no recollection of which point that their conversation had turned from reality into the nightmare, either.

And with that realisation, Hermione can only see two options.

Either, she’s losing her mind, or… Voldemort has done something to her.

The first option—while it is entirely plausible given that it was her idea to visit him in the first place—she quickly dismisses. Because what she’s experiencing is something mental, something to do with the mind, and that has Voldemort’s handiwork written all over it.

And so, she’s sure.

This… she needs to treat this as a warning. She needs to stop visiting him before he does something worse.

But, most importantly, before she stops seeing him, she needs to put the containment charm back.


	6. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I KNOW I AM SLOW, I AM SORRY D: D:

Hermione doesn't sleep again that night, and instead, uses her time to work on getting the technique for the containment charm.

It's a frustrating piece of magic, and by the time the sun's come up, she hasn't made too much in the way of progress. She managed to put the first piece of the charm together without too much trouble, but layering the second component was proving to be most... difficult.

But even still, she'll get there. She knows she will, it’s just a matter of time.

Later on that morning, after she's forced to stop working on the charm and head into the Ministry, Hermione spends the short journey and the first hours of her work day stewing over the charm, over Voldemort, over the situation she's put herself into. She stews and stews, and she doesn't mean to, but she can't help but snap at Barry from maintenance. She nearly yells at the office secretary, and by the time it's hit midday, she's just about ready to storm out of there.

And then, just as he's heading out of the staffroom and she's heading into it, she runs into Ludovic from level three and he spills his coffee all over her blouse.

And with that, Hermione _does_ storm out of there.

It's a stupid thing to do, she knows that. It's the sort of thing that Harry would've done, the sort of thing she would've scolded him profusely for. But she's so tired and so _angry_ that she can't stop herself, and before she knows it, she's marching up the stairs of Azkaban.

When she reaches Voldemort's floor, her stomach twists with warning, but she’s too far gone to heed its advice. Instead, Hermione gives perfunctory greetings to Dean and Oswald, and waits for them to release the charms on the door and open the cell.

While she waits, she keeps her jaw snapped shut and doesn't let herself think about what she's doing.

"You have an hour," Dean states tiredly, and Hermione nearly jumps. Then, he pulls the heavy door to the cell open, and gestures for her to enter.

Hermione nods and shoves her hands into her pockets. Deep within the fabric, she tightens her grip around her stowed wand in her pocket, and then, she enters the cell.

Voldemort is sitting patiently in his usual position, his long fingers laced together. He is his young self again and looks to be quite bored, but when he sees her, he gives her what she supposes is meant to be a warm smile, and greets politely, "Ms. Granger."

Rage bubbles beneath her skin.

Hermione doesn't respond to his greeting while she waits for the heavy door to fall shut behind her. But once it does and the tell-tale sound of the guards sealing the locks echoes through the small cell, she draws her wand, aiming it directly at the space between Voldemort's eyes.

Calmly, he stares at the end of her wand and slowly raises one of his eyebrows, before he meets her eyes and asks, "is something the matter?"

"What-did-you-do?" Hermione demands, her jaw achingly tight.

His second eyebrow lifts.

"I don't remember what happened yesterday," she grounds out when he doesn't say anything. "I don't remember how I got home. I know you've done something to me, did—did you alter my memory?"

He leans back into his chair and frowns. He almost looks offended. "I did no such thing."

But though it sounds honest, it doesn't fool her, and Hermione doesn't falter. "You're lying."

Voldemort gives a short laugh, and after a long sigh, he says, "after we finished our riveting conversation about Dumbledore, you informed me that we were out of time. You then proceeded to pack your things, stomp your feet until I put the restraints back on, and then, once you were finally satisfied with my lack of comfort, you left."

Hermione narrows her eyes, stares for a good long pause. "No," she eventually decides. "We never spoke of Dumbledore. You refused to speak to me about Hogwarts at all."

Voldemort shrugs. "It's all in your notes, if you don't believe me," he chimes, his features a picture of innocence as he nods toward her bag that's wrapped over her shoulder.

Hermione huffs, and then, careful not to take her wand off of him, she shimmies her bag down her arm and fishes out her notebook with her free hand. She tosses it onto the table, flips it open, and—

She stops breathing, because it's all there.

There are multiple pages with yesterday's date scrawled on the top, her neat handwriting filling the pages below with tidy dot-points detailing an in-depth conversation.

' _...agitated at the mention of Dubmledore's name..._ '

'... _takes credit for Dumbledore's death, even after all these years..._ '

' _...frequent insults, personal in nature... still holding a grudge..._ '

' _...Dumbledore demonstrated favouritism toward other students; ~~not interested in Riddle?~~_ _distrust_...'

Hermione meticulously scans each page, each line of her handwriting, until she reaches the very end of her notes.

Her mind turns quickly.

"This... this means nothing," she eventually decides, discarding the notebook and hardening her jaw. "You could easily have fabricated these. Tell me what happened before I left yesterday."

There's a long pause then, and as his features give nothing away, Voldemort runs his hand along his jawbone.

For some reason, it riles her, and Hermione steps closer to the table. " _Tell me what hap_ —"

Voldemort cuts her off with a laugh. "Oh. Ms. _Granger_ ," he drawls between his laughs as if she's really pulling his leg, and there's a shift in his demeanour now. No longer is there anything close to innocence on his features. "What makes you think you've left my cell at all?"

The cell falls silent.

Hermione blinks, not immediately understanding what he'd said.

"W— what?"

But he doesn't answer her. Instead, Voldemort holds his smile and says, "come," before he pushes his own chair back and rises to his feet.

Hermione warily eyes him down and up, not lowering her wand as she watches him circle to the side of the table while he removes his own restraints.

"Here," he says, gesturing to the small patch of open space before him once his hands are free.

She watches him suspiciously, but, comforted by the wand in her hand, she slowly does as he says and stands in front of him, leaving a comfortable amount of space between them. She still doesn't lower her wand, though.

"Good. Now," he says, seemingly unbothered by the wand. "Close your eyes."

"Um," she snorts at once, "unlikely."

He stares at her blankly. "Just do it."

"No! Who's to say what you're trying to—"

"I'm not going to touch you, Ms. Granger, just close your eyes," he instructs irritably. "It'll only be for a moment."

She narrows her eyes, holds her ground.

He sighs. "I promise you that I won't harm a hair on your frizzy little head. I only wish to give you... a bit of a demonstration, of sorts. Just close your eyes for a few seconds."

Hermione huffs and gives him a scowl for good measure, and though she knows she shouldn't be doing anything he tells her to, she's become morbidly curious and so, she slowly closes her eyes.

She still doesn't lower her wand, but the feeling of vulnerability of having her eyes closed makes the hairs on her neck and arms all stand on end. Quickly deciding not to give him any more than five seconds, she counts backward,

five,

four,

three,

 _two_ —

"All right. Open," Voldemort instructs.

At once, she opens her eyes, and she's—

Her breath catches, blood drains from her cheeks.

She's not in his cell anymore.

She's not even in Azkaban.

Instead, she's standing in the middle of a sunny paddock, and she and Voldemort are stood underneath the shade of a large, stand-alone tree. There's a slight breeze and the branches above are swaying, yet the birds perched high in the tree don't seem to mind it. There's grass beneath her feet, long enough that it scratches against her ankles, and now, in the brighter setting than in the gloomy, damp cell, Voldemort looks... well. Suddenly, Hermione thinks she understands what Harry meant when he'd described Tom Riddle to her and Ron all of those years ago.

He really is... _attractive._

Not that Hermione lets herself think about that, of course.

"How... what is this?" she asks, slowly lowering her wand as her anger drifts away, her eyes roaming over the paddock in wonder. "How are you doing this?"

He steps around her, the sunlight hitting his hair, and there's something smug, playful about the way he's smiling. "I told you," he says as if it's simple. "Sometimes, magic is about what it isn't."

"But that's—"

"Ah, ah," he interrupts, raising a slender hand. "Just _think_ about what I'm saying."

She sighs, pulling her eyes off of him to watch the bright coloured birds in the tree hopping between the branches as they sing to each other.

_Sometimes magic is about what it isn't._

_Sometimes magic is about what it_ isn't _._

She fights an eyeroll. What nonsense.

But then—

Hermione quickly turns to look back up at Voldemort, who's moved to stand beside her.

"Do you mean... this... this isn't transfiguration," she says, and she thinks she's figured it out. "Is it?"

He slowly turns his head to give her a closed-mouth smile. He stays silent, but he raises his eyebrows as if to say, 'go on.'

"This..." She reaches up and gently touches one of the leaves of the tree, feeling its thickened veins between her fingers. It's smooth. Solid. As solid as she is. "This isn't... it's not real."

He's watching her very intently, now.

"No," he agrees, his voice dropping low. "It's not."

"But then..." Hermione lets go of the leaf and gives him her full attention. "If it's not transfiguration... and we haven't apparated... what is it?"

He tilts his head. "You're close," he says, his eyes passing between hers as he steps closer still. "Put it together."

If she hadn't been so distracted by her surroundings, Hermione probably would've stepped back. "It's not real..." she murmurs to herself instead. " _It's not real._ But then, if it's not real... if we're still in the cell... and assuming that like your appearance, it's specific to _me_..."

She inhales a sharp breath, her eyes snapping to his as the realisation dawns on her.

Voldemort smiles wide, and in the sun, the crimson of his eyes seems to glow. "Say it."

"You're just making me _think_ it's real," she whispers, and as soon as it's out, she knows that she's right. "This is all in my head. Isn't it?"

He makes a low sound of amusement deep in his throat. "Very _good_ , Ms. Granger."

"But..." She looks up again, noting the intricate details in the tree's branches. "How are you doing all of this?"

Voldemort licks his lips. "Legillimency is not as simple as reading one's mind, or examining one's memory." He steps even closer to her, close enough now that her wand is brushing his robe, and she has to tilt her head to keep her eye on him. "Like most branches of magic, far more is possible than what is described in the textbooks. With the right touch, the right technique..." He raises a hand, and it's as if he's about to stroke her cheek, "I could have you seeing anything I wanted you to."

She hears it then. Veiled beneath his peaceful tone, there is a threat.

But Hermione doesn't get a chance to call him on it, because then, _just_ as the cold pads of his fingers brush against her skin, the world around her suddenly _shifts_.

The sunlight vanishes and the birds cease their singing, and suddenly it's not just a breeze that she hears, but _waves._

She rears back, and now, wind roads around them and there's an icy spray coming from below.

They're standing at the edge of a cliff, and the sea below is rough, violent. Overhead, the clouds are dark and thick, threatening to fall down upon them.

Instinctively, Hermione steps back, distancing herself from the cliff's edge, but Voldemort doesn't move, leaving mere inches between himself and the edge of the rocks.

"Wh—where are we now?" she asks, though she nearly has to yell to be heard over the wind and waves.

He seems amused. "We haven't moved at all."

"You know what I mean," she snaps, unable to stop herself from wrapping her arms around herself in a bid to keep warm.

Voldemort glances out over the ocean as he gives her a slight shrug, and then, instead of answering her, he suggests, "why don't you try taking us back?"

Hermione has half a mind to snap at him, but there's a challenge in his voice. And even though the absolute last thing she wants to do is obey him, she's never been the sort to turn down a challenge of magic, and so, she tries. Using everything she knows of Occlumency, she tries.

And yet, she doesn't make it back to the cell. The meditative method taught to her by Croaker doesn't do the trick, and nor does the rigid, forced method she'd learned from Kingsley.

She tries and tries, and though she gives it her all, her surroundings don't budge.

"I... I can't," she eventually concedes.

Voldemort makes a sound that's lost to the wind and slowly turns back to face her. He gestures her over with a nod of his head.

"Come here."

Hermione hesitates.

"You said it yourself, Ms. Granger. Your surroundings aren't real," he points out, gesturing once more. "Come here."

She tightens her grip around herself and cautiously approaches him and the edge of the cliff. She's careful to leave a decent sized step between them, though.

Seemingly satisfied, Voldemort turns back toward the ocean and points down toward the rocks. "Do you see that, down there? That opening?"

She nods.

"I would venture down there as a child," he says. "It was one of my favourite places, because none of the other children could follow me."

Hermione brushes her hair out of her eyes and stares down at the rocks, and with a sinking feeling in her gut, she realises where they are.

Harry had been most descriptive of the cave he'd visited with Dumbledore in their sixth year.

"Um..." She frowns, glancing between him and the rocks below. "Why are you showing me this?"

Voldemort continues staring out toward the water, not seeming bothered by the ocean spray the way she is. But then, Hermione supposes if their scenery is all in her head, then he's probably not feeling it at all. "You wanted to learn, but you were not willing to listen to my methods," he says, glancing down to meet her eyes. "So, I decided to show you."

"Y-you could've just told me what you were doing, you know," she says, unable to stop her teeth from chattering. The cold feels so _real_.

The corner of his lips twitch. "Had I told you, would you have let me in to show you?"

Hermione pauses, but she doesn't need to think about it, not really. She remembers all too well how Harry handled Voldemort's intrusions into his mind.

"No," she concedes.

This time when Voldemort laughs, she hears it, low and smooth, and despite herself, she thinks she quite likes the sound of it.

But then she reminds herself that he's been nosing around in her thoughts for days, and she'd rather he didn't know what she thought of his laugh, so she forces herself to think of something else.

"Wait," she says after a pause, her thoughts catching on what he'd said earlier and the implications suddenly dawning on her. "You said earlier... I left your cell yesterday," she states surely. "I went home, I know I did." She glances down, sees her fresh set of clothes spotted with the spray from the ocean.

She'd specifically chosen her blue blouse this morning.

Voldemort simply watches her, and now there's a strange sort of smile on his lips, like he's mocking her. "Do you?"

"I- _yes_. I stayed up all night. I went into the Ministry this morning, I spoke with multiple people there, and I had a decent chat with Edwin down at the gates, not even half an hour ago. I left yesterday. I'm sure of it, and today, even though it was a ridiculously daft thing for me to do, I came back."

He shrugs, gives her a soft hum, and looks her down and up. "If you're sure."

He'd agreed with her. He'd spoken calmly, gently, but it only aggravates her further.

"No," she says, stepping closer. "I _am_ sure. I left."

Another shrug. "If you say so."

This time, Hermione _growls._

Voldemort laughs again, louder than before and bites down into his lip. "I have just told you that everything around you is a well-painted picture that has been placed in your mind by _me_. You accepted that. What makes you so sure that your time in your home last night wasn't simply... another of my artworks?"

Hermione's eyes pass between his, and now that he's said it, there's the nagging of doubt at the back of her mind, the budding of panic.

But Hermione’s sure of it; she'd been home, he couldn't have known such intricate details of her home even with the use of Legilimency. _Hours_ had passed, and the guards wouldn't have left her in his cell for any longer than an hour. She hadn't been in his cell the entire time, it just wasn't possible.

"I... because I know it. This... what you've done here... it’s an _incredible_ display of magic, I give you that, but... there are limits to what magic can do, and there are limits to what even you're capable of."

There's a gentle frown forming on his forehead and he almost looks... disappointed. It’s only then that she realises how close they’ve gotten, but before she can step back, Voldemort glances down, down toward her hands, and with a slow but steady movement, he reaches toward her.

Hermione takes a sharp breath when his fingertips brush the outside of her small finger of her free hand, and though she wants to pull away, she's so overcome by that same sense of morbid curiosity she’d felt earlier, that she _doesn't_. And when she doesn't, he slips his fingers under hers and brings their joined hands up between them, the same way one would when asking another to dance. His thumb closes around the fronts of her fingers, and his grip somehow feels colder than the misting water from below.

He runs his thumb back and forth over her knuckles, keeping his grip tight enough that if she tried to pull away, she'd struggle with it.

She still doesn't try, though.

"I see it now," he murmurs over the wind, and even with the friction of his skin over hers, he still feels so _cold_. "Why you were of such use to Potter. You are so... brave. Confident... logical... headstrong." He meets her eyes and breaks into what's almost a sad smile, and then says, "but foolish."

And with that, before she can stop him, he pushes her toward the edge of the cliff, and then, he lets her go.

Her damp shoes slip against the wet rock, and when gravity takes hold of her, Hermione _screams_.

The cold wind lashes against her skin as she falls, and she closes her eyes and goes to cast a cushioning charm to break her fall, and then she jolts, and she's—

Not falling anymore.

In fact, she hasn’t even landed.

She opens her eyes and gasps for air and finds herself seated in the chair on the far side of Voldemort's cell in Azkaban. She's not wet, not impaled on the rocky chiff-face, and she's sitting safely in one piece—well. As safely as one can be with Voldemort sitting opposite across from them, watching with mild interest.

"What..." Hermione frantically glances down at herself, inspecting herself for some sort of proof of what'd just happened, for wetness or injury, but finds her pink blouse in perfect condition, reaching neatly down to her wrists.

She breathes in relief.

But her relief is short lived and her heart continues to pound within her chest, because as soon as she notices that her blouse is good condition, she also notices that it's _pink._

She'd been wearing the pink blouse the day before. She was sure of it. _Today_ , she'd been wearing blue, she knew that, she specifically picked it out, she _knew_....

"What..." Hermione brushes her hair back from her face with both of her hands, "what's going o—"

Hermione's words die in her throat, because when she pulls her attention from yesterday's clothes, she notices that there, in the centre of the table, being twisted between Voldemort's long fingers, is the wand she'd smuggled in. She hadn't even noticed that she'd let it go.

And Voldemort smiles then, wide, amused and smug, and even though his smile is undoubtedly beautiful, it's anything but the warm one he'd given her earlier.

"Are you learning yet, Ms. Granger?"


End file.
